Chapter 2
GABBY
Istretch in my chair, my back popping.
But it doesn’t relieve the real tension, the tension caused by the fact that tonight, I decided I’ve had enough.
It’s been endless work, rewriting financial models, running risk assessments, reformatting graphics. There’s a damn good chance that when this is all said and done, we’ll be on the verge of one of the biggest corporate mergers in Chicago history.
I still can’t believe Sasha dropped this on me, like it was a casual request for a latte from Starbucks or something. An outline like this would need a week in itself just to get started. And he wants it in a day? What the hell is wrong with him?
I should’ve told him to fuck off right then and there. Instead, I took it, like I always do, getting to it like the good, little worker bee I am.
Three years of this. Three years of ruined weekends.
Three years of canceled dinners, dates I’ve had to flake on at the last minute, plans blown up, all because Mr. Orlov needs you, Miss Reese.
He has a freaking gift for timing. It’s like he somehow knows when I’m about to pour myself a glass of wine or slip into my PJs before calling and telling me he has another urgent matter, immediate priority, no excuses.
It’s like I’m his favorite little game, like one of the perks of the job for him is watching me squirm.
And I let him do it.
Why? Because it’s my job, one I was lucky enough to get right out of college. Because AngelCorp looks amazing on a resume. Because the pay is crazy. Because I’ve convinced myself that if I can survive Sasha Orlov, I can survive anything.
But no more. Tonight, I’m done.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the words on my laptop screen. They blur into nothing. My head is pounding and my back is killing me. I’m not even sure if the work I’ve been doing for the last hour makes sense. My brain is so fried, it could be nothing but gibberish.
I take a slow, deep breath, letting calmness and Zen wash over me. I’m done being angry, done cursing him under my breath. I close my eyes, rehearsing the speech I’m finally ready to give him.
I quit, Mr. Orlov. Three years of this crap, three years of power games and deadlines designed to break me. I’m done. Take this job and shove it into whatever dark, Russian hole you crawled out of.
It’s almost enough to make me smile. Part of me still doesn’t think I’ll ever say anything like that to him.
Another part of me, the worse part, is addicted to this insane, toxic dynamic between us.
Part of me loves that low, commanding voice of his, loves the way he fills out his suit, loves the way he makes my heart race just by walking past.
But I shouldn’t love anything about this. I should hate it. I should hate him.
Instead, I want him. If I had a therapist (no time for that with my work schedule, of course), no doubt she’d have a field day with me.
No. This needs to end.
I slam my laptop shut and shove my chair back. I rise, my legs wobbly from sitting for so many hours. To my left, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the darkened windows of the office. I look like a stranger, my hair flat, my makeup long gone, my blouse wrinkled.
I look tired.
Angry.
But ready.
I grab my blazer off the back of my chair, shove my arms through the sleeves, and square my shoulders.
This is it. This is my war march. This is my moment.
“I quit, Mr. Orlov.” I practice the words under my breath as I stride, testing how it feels. My voice shakes a little, so I clear my throat and give it another try, firmer this time. “I quit, Mr. Orlov. Take your bullshit deadlines and—” I let the words trail off into a muttered curse.
It feels good, dangerous almost. Like standing on the edge of a cliff or hitting the peak of a roller coaster right before the drop.
The office is eerily silent at this hour.
Pretty much all of the staff is gone—if anyone else is here but me and the big man, I don’t see them.
The lights are dimmed, and off in the distance, I hear the cleaning staff vacuuming.
The air conditioning hums low and steady, making me feel like I’m in the belly of a big, mechanical beast.
My heels click against the floor as I make my way down the corridor. Each step closer sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through me, making me feel hot and reckless. My nerves are jangling, my pulse throbbing, but I don’t slow down.
A smile forms on my lips as I picture his face after I tell him. I picture those obsidian eyes narrowing, his jaw twitching. He’ll try to play it cool, but I’ll know better. He’ll be full of fury, rage at me stepping out from under his foot.
For once, I’ll win. For once, I’ll be the one holding the cards.
The hallway stretches out, lit by thin strips of fluorescent light that make everything feel sterile and hollow. Down at the very end, Sasha’s office looms. Those big glass doors are shut, amber light glowing faintly inside. Just me and him.
Three years of hell. Three years of his games and bullshit.
No more.
My heart’s pounding as I step up to the office doors.
My speech sits on my tongue like a red-hot coal.
I take a deep breath, grab the door handle, and then I push inside.
I don’t bother knocking. Why would I? I’m the one in charge now.
I shove the door open, and as I do, I realize that I’ve been waiting years for this exact moment.
“Mr. Orlov, I—”
I stop mid-sentence. Something’s wrong. Then my mind draws a blank.
The office is dimmer than usual—only a single lamp glows near the corner, throwing long slashes of amber light across the desk. It takes me about two seconds to realize what’s going on.
Sasha isn’t working. Not at all. His jacket is tossed over the back of his chair. His tie is loose, hanging undone around his thick neck. The top two buttons of his shirt are open. He’s leaning forward, one hand gripping the edge of his desk, like he’s trying to steady himself.
The other hand? That’s gripped around something else.
His cock.
At first, I can’t believe what I’m looking at. Sasha Orlov, my boss, the man who signs my paychecks and the man who torments me on a seemingly daily basis, is right in front of me, stroking himself.
He’s pumping slowly, his grip tight around his cock.
Just as I would’ve guessed, Sasha is thick and long, long enough for his hand to start at the root and slide upwards.
His grip is hard enough to make the veins of his gorgeous, ropy forearms pop a bit.
I can even see a little bead of cum at the end of his dick.
I freeze. At first, I can’t even comprehend what I’m seeing. My boss, the single most in-control man I’ve ever known in my life, is touching himself right in front of me. His eyes are closed.
Then his head tips back, a sound coming from him. A groan. “Gabriella.”
My name.
What. The. Fuck.
It feels like the ground drops out from under me. My blood goes cold, then hot, almost scalding. Ice, then fire. Mortification crashes into disbelief, which crashes into something else, something I don’t want to name.
Does he not know I’m here? He strokes himself again, groaning once more. What’s he imagining? Me on the desk in front of him, his cock plunging into me again and again? Or me on my knees, taking him into my mouth?
All I know is that what I’m seeing, I wasn’t meant to see. I should turn around slowly, back out of there, hope he was so deep into his fantasy about me that he didn’t notice. But I can’t. I can’t move, can’t breathe.
It’s crazy. The sight of him touching himself like this should disgust me, at the very least make me feel like I’ve stepped into something intensely private and personal.
But all I can think about is how he somehow still looks so powerful.
I can see the shape of his sculpted chest, his neck tense, his grip so solid it makes me wonder what it would be like for him to hold me that tightly.
It all should repulse me. It should horrify me.
But instead, it turns me on.
Heat sparks low in my belly, my pussy clenching. My heart pounds against my ribs. My panties are totally soaked. Again.
“God, you feel so good.”
My eyes are locked onto his manhood, my mouth practically watering. I consider running one more time.
Then his eyes snap open.
Something gave me away. Or maybe he just felt my presence. Either way, those dark eyes are open, locked onto mine. My body jolts like I’m the one who got caught.
For a long moment, everything is silent. Just me, him, and the room. His breathing is still ragged.
He smiles. I can see what’s happening—he’s daring me to run, daring me to at least look away, daring me to deny what I’m seeing, what I’m hearing.
But I can’t.
His gaze pins me in place, just like it always does. He commands me with his eyes, ordering me without words.
Stay.
Watch.
It’s wrong. So, so wrong.
But my feet don’t move. Not even an inch.